Story In The End
by shaping-up-to-be-pretty-ood
Summary: His last death is going to be slow and painful. Nothing he hasn't done before. As the Twelfth Doctor falls to his knees in agony, he knows what he has to do before he returns to Trenzalore to remain there for an eternity. And if it doesn't work, well... He'll never forgive himself. [end of fic notes are important if you want to read this.]


The battle had taken its toll heavily on him. He knew from the minute he set foot on Trenzalore again that this really would be his final journey. There was no escaping it this time. Besides, 1500 years was impressive for one man. It was no Jack Harkness, but his life had been plenty long.

But he wasn't dead yet. It would take a while for him to properly die this time around, because his body was trying to dredge up any autron energy it possibly could to attempt a regeneration. It wasn't unheard of for a dying Time Lord to almost make it to a full thirteenth regeneration if his previous ones had gone off without a hitch. There was no way he was going to make it, though. He'd gotten his hand lopped off, been shot by a Dalek, and healed River's wrist. There was only minute amounts of the energy left within him now.

He stumbled towards his TARDIS, dimly focusing on the limp body of his companion before the doors. She isn't dead, and he knows that. She'd been unconscious for a very long time, and since no one dared to go anywhere near the box during the battle, she'd been safe slumped against the ship. He picked her up in his arms, thinking of all the other times he'd ended up holding his best friends like this while they were right on the brink of death.

"Hold on, Clara," he whispered hotly, tears streaming down his face. "I'll get you home. I promise."

xXx

He hadn't been able to explain to Angie and Artie what was wrong with Clara as he laid her on the couch. He'd just left.

And he knew where he needed to be.

xXx

He fell to his knees in the Library, sitting before the computing unit he'd watched his wife die in front of. "Please," he gasped, fumbling for the screwdriver in his pocket. He'd not only made a neural relay in his wife's sonic, but his as well. The screwdriver contained a digital replica of his soul...

He wasn't close enough to plug the sonic in to the computer. And he could hardly move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shadows surge up to him and something told him he should panic. The Vashta Nerada were about to rewrite time by killing him.

But they didn't. No, they were _moving_ him towards the computer. This was unheard of. The Vashta Nerada were vicious, almost unreasonable creatures. Did they sense it was his time of dying? Did they take pity on the dying man trying to reunite with his wife? He was close enough now. And the socket before him fit the end of his screwdriver as if it had been designed for exactly that.

The electricity surged through his body, but it wasn't painful. The heat emanating from the sonic certainly was, though. It was absolutely burning his hand, but he couldn't let go... Not now...

xXx

The TARDIS was taking him back to Trenzalore, and in the back of his head he could hear the low sobbing of his ship. It was the clearest he had ever heard her in his head, and he idly wondered if this was always how River felt in the ship. Able to understand her every move and intention.

It was a shame he was about to die.

xXx

It was the scream that woke him. It had been so long since he had heard that voice.

"Are you real?" His wife shouted, standing against the far wall with a terrified expression plastered on her face.

"Yes," he groaned, his mouth feeling funny. "I'm dead, dear." His head shot up from the pillow he found he was laying on, and he stared at River. "Which one am I?"

"You...?" She was uncertain what he actually meant. "Blimey-chin and girly-hair?"

"Eleven?" he squeaked. "But why? I'd regenerated!" Realization struck him like a slap in the face. "It's because of _you_. Charlotte knew that this face is the face of _your_ me. I could probably change it if I wanted... Hold on." He concentrated for a moment. "Do I look about seventy now?"

"Like your first incarnation, yes." After another moment, she muttered, "Now you look like you again. So, you're dead?"

"Yes."

"And with your dying breaths, you uploaded yourself to the Library."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You. I was unreasonably cruel, never contacting you. You became a heartbreak that I blamed myself for. I never told you how much I loved you. You deserve to hear it every day until eternity ends. And believe me, I was there, it'll take a good long while. Professor River Song, I want to spend virtual forever with you."

River laughed, trying to refrain from crying. "You never really were the best with romantics, dear."

**A/N: I am refusing to call John Hurt's incarnation of the Doctor "the Doctor." He wasn't the Doctor then, the only way to refer to him was by his real, Gallifreyan name. **_**What he did was not in the name of the Doctor.**_** Therefore, when I say the Twelfth Doctor, I mean the thirteenth, and last, incarnation of the man. I've been calling him the Storm, I've heard people call him the Valeyard, and I've even heard of some people calling him 8.5 and Doctor Hurt. So whatever you call him, I wouldn't call him the "actual Ninth Doctor" because a.) no. Christopher Eccleston is Nine and b.) **_**he**_** wasn't even referring to himself as the Doctor.**

** Also, there is about to be an enormous slew of fics from me. Sorry.**


End file.
